Taste Me, Drink My Soul
by BilliMonroe
Summary: He smelled sweet, like vanilla but there was something underneath it, something thick and musky with a masculine headiness... And Blaine Anderson swore he could almost feel this man everywhere, slipping into his subconscious. Could taste him on his tongue. Could hear him calling even though his lips never moved. Calling to claim him...
1. Prologue: Cruel Intentions

**A/N**: Hello, there. If you are reading this, then welcome to my playpen, and thank you for giving me a chance after the epic fail that was _Friendship Redefined._ For anyone who had read, followed, and/or reviewed that story, please know that it has not been abandoned. I just have extreme writer's block where it's concerned. So I thought that I would try and work through it by reworking this story.

Now, this story was originally planned as an original story with completely made up characters, not a fan fiction. But I couldn't stop seeing these characters in the Glee-verse. So if you frequent Fiction Press or Valent Chamber then you may have come across a little story called _Lamia. _If you haven't, but are curious to know what this story would look like with a heterosexual couple, then take a look. Also, as some of you know from prior conversations and stories, music makes up a very big part of who I am, and because of this, many of my stories, chapters, etc. have theme songs. The theme song for this entire story is "Waiting Game" by and artist called Banks. If you haven't heard of this, please give it a listen (and pay special attention to the lyrics, as they are what inspired me to continue writing this story). This fiction is also very loosely inspired by one of my favorite movies, _Cruel Intentions._

Thank you, so much, to **K8Malloy** for your involvement in this story. This chapter is my Valentine's gift to you.

Finally, this story contains some **heavily **controversial themes. If you are an innocent, thin-skinned, easily offended, or conservative in anyway, then you might want to turn back now. This is your one and only general warning.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned any of these characters or shows involved, I wouldn't be spending my time of Fan fiction. Now, let's get on with it, shall we?

Prologue – Cruel Intentions

"Pursuit and seduction are the essence of sexuality. It's part of the sizzle."

**- Camille Paglia**

* * *

"Then he started grinding on me, you know, like rubbing his…junk…all over mine. So I raised my fist to deck him again, because you know, his life is his life, but I'm not with that dude-on-dude shit. But then…" The man telling the story took a deep breath and tiredly rubbed his hands over his face, finding it difficult to continue with the rest of his story for fear of judgment. In his mind, he couldn't see how they wouldn't judge him; _he_ was certainly judging himself, and really that was all the confirmation he needed to know that the predicament he was in was damned to hell.

The moments when his eyes weren't screwed shut, they shined hazel with unshed tears of confusion and feelings of lust, longing, and repulsion, feelings that he shouldn't have been having. Dr. Lopez, the sex therapist that his girlfriend had taken them to see, found it hilarious.

See, he was one of those perpetual ladies men, the type that kept a collection of used panties in one closet and, well, himself, in the other. He was untamable, untouchable, living fast and free with wild nights, lazy days, and no room for rest in between. When he'd finally settled down with the cute redhead from HR, he'd made sure to keep his bachelor pad in the city instead of moving in with her.

"Just trying to take things slow," he'd told said redhead, "so as not to mess us up." And that would have been all well and good, his newfound devotion to being Mr. Hetero, that is, had Santana's underwear not ended up in that graveyard of past conquests as he was making this vow. But they had, and when it was over she'd gotten the proverbial "See you in your dreams" speech while this red-haired bitch was picking out china patterns. Well now it was his dreams that were being infiltrated night after night. And the best part? He had no idea that Santana's …er…"subliminal messaging" was to blame. Damn, she loved her job.

Said redhead, Amber, or Angela perhaps, rubbed her boyfriend's back gently as he pulled his hands away from his red-rimmed eyes, but neither looked farther up than the shiny, dark wood floor.

Santana smiled evilly to herself as if their dysfunction was the most decadent piece of chocolate that she had ever been presented. He wore a look of anguish that was better than sex, and her discord was Godiva incarnate.

"And then what happened?" Dr. Lopez asked, savoring the tension in the air. Their pain was nearly tangible. She hoped that she could still feel it later, coating her skin like the thin sheen of sweat on his brow.

He visibly swallowed before answering. "It…moved."

_There, there. Now was that so difficult to say?_ Santana thought. She was loving every minute of this but was nothing less than the picture of professionalism as she asked, "I'm sorry, Mr. Karofsky, could you elaborate?"

No he really couldn't. Because he wasn't too sure how they—he and his roommate, that is—had gotten to that point in the first place, the point of dry humping on the couch, bodies close, pressed flush together, separated only by two thin pieces of cotton clothing that had created the most disgusting and devastatingly amazing friction when they'd started off nearly beating each other senseless over a dirty dish that neither would claim. Yes, a dirty dish. Shit had been building for a while.

What made things even worse was that what had happened wasn't something that he could blame entirely on his roommate; their situation had been just as much his fault. It was just that he had wanted it really badly, still did in fact. So much that he often imagined hard sinews and lean muscles just to get the job done in the boudoir when his girlfriend's soft curves should have been more than enough. He didn't understand this at all, given the fact that he had never before shown an interest in the same sex. At least, not outwardly. Not until the day that Santana had seen him and the redhead grocery shopping. Not that he knew that. He didn't even remember her. That was a month ago; he hadn't been back to his apartment since "The Incident" the previous night.

Santana watched the man angrily fist his shaky hands through his hair as he claimed that the man formally known as his douchebag roommate was driving him crazy in the worst way and he wasn't even present. Still, he tried to explain as best he could without vomiting all over the floor.

"I mean, he put his hand on my lap and I froze, but _it_," the man looked down at his dress pants-covered crotch, "didn't. I got…excited." Frustrated, and growing more than a little pissed off all over again, he looked down after he said this. He and Ashleigh had rushed over to Santana's office as soon as he'd gotten off of work, looking for answers, cures, maybe even a lobotomy to solve his problem. Yet all the good doctor wanted him to do was rehash the happenings of that night.

"I see. So then why did you stop?" she asked, eyes boring into his skull so as to catch every drop of emotion that washed over his face.

He shuddered, and she nearly came, "HWell, the phone rang before we could…um…you… you know, so he leaned over me to answer it, and before you know it, I was dialing Ashleigh and busting a nut into toilet to her voice."

"Dave's not gay," Ashleigh cut in, distress forming lines on her otherwise smooth forehead, "it's just that—and please excuse my language Dr. Lopez, but—his whore of a roommate keeps flaunting his gayness around my boyfriend by walking around their shared living space in nothing but a thin pair of cotton boxer briefs, making things very hard on him."

Santana inwardly smirked at the young woman's wording and looked to the boyfriend. _Hmph, I bet I know one _thing_ that's getting harder just thinking about it._

But he was cutting back in, so she stayed quiet. "You gotta help me, Doc. I…all my shit's at my apartment, shit I need for work, shit I need for Senator Donald's campaign party tonight, but…I can't go back there knowing that he'll be there." Dave and Ashley looked at Santana with pleading eyes and fingers entwined. The sex therapist licked her lips hungrily at the hopeful glint in their eyes, belly growing fuller every time one of them blinked.

They were just like all the other couples who came to her for advice, so innocent, so trusting. It was almost worth it to give them bad advice just to watch them self-destruct. Because they were her _Fifty Shades_, her _Magic Mike, _the real-life erotic novels that left her wet with anticipation.

"I think that going back is exactly what you need to do," Santana told her client. Ashleigh opened her mouth to protest, but Santana held up her hand to continue, "Avoidance will only make your feelings for this young man grow stronger. You'll start to dream of him, in vague spurts at first, but then they will grow into lucid fantasies. Soon you will crave him in your waking life, until the need to satisfy your obsession reigns above all."

Ashleigh didn't miss the way that Santana's index finger trailed the circular rim of her boyfriend's tea cup in a seemingly absentminded manner as she talked, and she eyed it with disgust. After all, that finger hand just been rubbing the woman's lip.

But Dave, who didn't seem to notice, or maybe he just didn't care, took a huge sip from the cup, swallowed, and nodded his agreement with vigor as the woman reminded them that time was up.

In all actuality, it really wasn't, but she had gotten her fill of them and was ready to call it a day.

The couple walked out, promising each other that they would get the other through this tough time, and Santana walked over to the wet bar by the large window that overlooked the city. "Delusion that perfect just begs to be corrupted," Santana muttered, alluding to her artful tactic of bringing out the man's repressed sexuality while sipping the scotch-laden coffee in her mug.

"And who better to corrupt it than you?" A man's deep baritone sounded somewhere behind her. "But tell me something," he continued, "how does such a self-absorbed, emotionless, she-bitch, like yourself, present such a convincing air of humanity so late into the evening hours?"

Santana looked out at the darkening sky with a smirk playing on her glossy, mauve lips. "The same way she did when she was with her self-obsessed, sociopathic, asshole of an ex-husband," the sides of her lips tilted upward at the further advancement of his Italian loafers on the shiny office floor. "She fakes it."

This was a lie of the worst and filthiest kind.

Of all their problems, sex had never been one. It was all the other things that couldn't be said between sweaty sheets covered thick with the scent of post-coital bliss that had done the twosome in.

The problem with Santana Lopez and Jesse St. James was that, as a couple, they had been a disaster filled with psychological abuse, a couple near murders, and the occasional date rape. And those were just her transgressions. His were, in fact, much viler in nature and are far too many to count, but only in the sense that they facilitated all of hers.

Yet as exes, they were a perfect match, seeking only the friction of the other's vicious nature to set fire to all those who crossed their paths. It worked like this: She kept his business afloat; he quelled her appetite. It was as simple as that, but even still, sometimes their arrangement made Jesse act as though he owned her. And while ownership practices made for good role-playing exercises in the bedroom, they simply would not do elsewhere. Especially here in her office.

"It's been a long day, Jesse ," she took another sip of her drink, cocking her head to the side and looking down slightly behind her so that he would know she was talking to him even though he wasn't looking directly at him, "so if you have no plans of getting me the fuck off, then get the fuck out!"

Jesse chuckled at her obvious yet half-hearted irritation as he walked through the room. Of course she would be up for a round of desktop nookie. Most psychologists' offices were as wooden and bland as the Ivy League lecture halls from which the diplomas lining the walls came and furnished with dark leather and stiff wood that ironically didn't inspire the latter in their male patients, but not Santana's.

Santana's office was all subtle lighting and cozy, plush furniture with rivulets so romantic and warm you dropped your guard immediately. Add a few scented candles and Bach's _Air on a G-String_ (a fabled orgasm enhancer) in the background, and voila! You had an office set to inspire sex in both frisky strangers and unhappy couples alike. Except for Santana and Jesse, of course.

"Be sweet," he scolded her from just a foot away.

"I can be sweet. But if I were sweet to everyone and at all times, how would you ever know that you were special?" Santana mocked; smiling in that sly way that dared not to be deterred by the way he walked up behind her and dipped his mouth low to her ear.

"We would know that we were special when you were especially sweet," he drawled, pulling her earlobe slightly between his teeth before letting go and snaking his arms around her waist. She turned in his arms to face him.

"What do you want, St. James?" she asked with an amused smirk on her face, because there was always something. Even when they had been together they rarely spent time outside of moans and groans to actually hold a conversation with each other, and never without motive or intention. That was the nature of their relationship. Always had been, always would be.

He worried his bottom lip between his teeth and rubbed it way he always did when he had a proposition for her.

This week's proposal? He was throwing a party for Senator Donald's reelection announcement. "And I need a few of your home-cooked party favors."

"What's in it for me?" Santana said to her reflection in Jesse 's light brown eyes—it always had been the only way that she could stomach looking into the man's eyes. Not that he was bad looking. Quite the contrary, in fact. But at six-foot-one with a thirty inch waist and dark brown hair that always looked messily sexy in a way that matched his devil-may-care swagger, he knew he was hot. And that turned her stomach. Heaven forbid someone should be a vain as her.

"The same thing that's always in it for you," he said, lifting one hand from her waist and using it to move her long, dark hair over one café-au-lait brown shoulder. "Ten percent of every happy client."

"Twenty." She swatted his hand away.

"Twelve." He moved it down to her inner thigh.

"Fifteen. Take it or leave it." She lifted her pencil skirt even higher for better access. One sharp eyebrow raised and waited for his decision.

"Fifteen," he agreed quietly after a while, fingers disappearing into the black lace of her underwear only to exit just as quickly with her essence coating his short, manicured nails. She watched with an eye roll as his sucked the fingers into his mouth and pulled them out with a loud pop, sealing their deal at fifteen percent. They could have done so with a kiss—or I don't know, maybe a _contract _even_—_but who had time for that?

Sensing that his job was finished, he extricated himself from her presence and walked toward the door, calling over his shoulder for her to have everything ready by 10pm that night. "Oh, and bring something a little special for the senator. You know what he likes: pale skin, delicate frame, long legs—"

"I have someone," she said simply, raising her glass to her lips so that he would get the hint, open the door, and leave already.

A second later, Jesse St. James did just that, but stopped when he saw that his Vice President of Marketing, David Karofsky, was scheduled for the entire week. He shook his head and puffed out a laugh through his nose. Her tricks were boarding on petty. "He won't admit he's gay, you know?" He directed this statement at Santana.

Santana knew exactly who the man was talking about, and this time, even she could enjoy the topic. "He'll do whatever I make him do," she threw at him. Another chuckle escaped Jesse 's lips once she turned back to the window, and he left. Her lips stretched cruelly as her cold brown eyes narrowed on the cars zooming past on the slick streets far below, "After all, they're all my playthings."

* * *

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	2. The Hunger Games

**A/N: **Okay, so here's the deal: I'm super tired, so if you spot any typos or things that don't make sense to you, please point them out so that I can go over it again. Also, this fiction may be a updated every week up to three. It really depends on whether the inspiration to write hits, which usually depends on the amount/content of the reviews I get. So if you like what you're reading, let me know.

**Warning:** Given that this chapter takes place at a senatorial campaign party, there are some pretty controversial topics being broached here. If you are conservative in any way, and/or are very easily offended by certain topics, please skip until you see the name Blaine Anderson.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but Senator Donald, a claim that I'm not all that proud to stake. Now, let's get on with it, shall we?

I. The Hunger Games

"Hunger knows no friend but its feeder."

**- Aristophanes**

* * *

_**This one is a kinky bastard**_, Lidérc thought as he reached into his bag and smoothed Do Me Red lipstick onto his smooth lips.

Most people knew Senator Albert Donald as the self-proclaimed "People's Candidate." He wasn't the popular choice, of course, but he was the obvious choice for those who wanted to rectify California's reputation as a loose and liberal state up for anything at any time with anyone. During his first term, he'd managed to propose the repeal of legal gay marriages, shoot down every proposal for the legalization of marijuana on the voting ballots, save for Prop. 19, naturally, and as soon as this election ended and he took his seat back at the head of Senate—Because really, how could he lose? His opponent was a woman. And a Hispanic woman at that!—he planned to instate the ever-controversial and intrusive vaginal probe for all seeking abortions.

Because he was a family man, seen in every newspaper and internet ticker as someone who still took his wife out for Friday night dinner dates and left work every day at nine-on-the-dot, so that he could tuck his children into their _Thomas the Tank Engine_ bed sheets at night and lay down with his wife.

But Lidérc knew him as the fat, horny fuck that slipped from his own bed sheets to Lidérc's when his family and state weren't looking. The young man shook his head at the irony every time, but, as usual, the senator failed to notice. Too busy staring at the boy's mouth to bother.

Senator Donald loved when Lidérc wore red lipstick while he blew him. He said that red lipstick was the height of femininity as if it change the fact that a guy were the one sucking him off. But whatever. The senator wasn't getting any from his wife, no matter how much caviar and escargot he shoveled down her throat, which meant that he was hard up for loving and more than willing to pay the cocktail waiter triple what the others did.

Not that Lidérc was doing this for the money, but he had to do something to keep that annoying voice inside his head at bay—the one crying about how wrong this all was. And rent money for the entire year made in one night often did that.

He placed the black, velvet sack that he called his "Bag-o-Tricks" onto the sleek dresser, watching Donald's eyes light up. Another thing the politician loved about Lidérc? He made the word "Kinky" blush like a virgin.

But back to the senator. He was getting impatient. It had barely been five seconds since Lidérc had entered the room after going to the kitchen for a bowl of ice cubes and already he was demanding for his source of entertainment to get the ball—or rather, _his_ balls—rolling.

"Strip!" he ordered from his place at the head of the bed. His slippery tongue slid over his dry lips and he palmed his crotch in the classic vein of someone ready to watch a good show.

"Change of plans," Lidérc said. Because the man was crazy if he thought that he was going to get to see what was under the suspenders, trousers, and boots combo that made up his cocktail waiter uniform. The thing came with skin tight leather pants that laced up on the sides of the legs, corset style, showing a peak of his ice pale skin from hip to just above the knee, a chunky, three-hole belt-fashioned waistband, and patent vinyl ballet-inspired boots—sans heel—that stopped mid-calf. But he did remove his long black opera gloves as he crawled up the bed toward his prey. "We're going to play a little game. It's called 'See No Evil, Hear No Evil,'"

One glove secured the senator's hands to the headboard while the other wrapped around his head like a like a blindfold.

"What about Speak No Evil?" he asked hoarsely, mouth growing drier from excitement over the sound of the ice rattling in the bowl as Lidérc reached over to retrieve it.

"Don't get ahead of yourself there, Cialis. That comes later," he smiled playfully before hovering above Donald's hips and blowing gently into his ear. And just like that, the libidinous man could no longer hear.

He could only feel the pressure on his thighs as Lidérc straddled them and proceeded to undo the zipper of his slacks. Senator Donald groaned in frustration; he was painfully hard, leaking uncomfortably in his silk—pervert approved—speedo and this…_boy…_was taking his goddamned sweet time pulling the pants from his hips. See no evil, indeed!

"AAHHHHH! You, bitch!" Senator Donald roared when Lidérc raked his blunt nails down his thighs in effort to take off the cheesy underwear. But despite his words, he was excited to no end by the sting of pain that the waiter's nails had created, if the twitching erection standing at attention was any indication.

Still, Lidérc was nobody's bitch. "Call me another bitch," he grabbed his client's balls roughly and squeezed painfully, "and I'll rip them clean off. Do you understand?"

He couldn't hear the young man aurally, but the way the words echoed inside his head, all deep and demonic, and overlapping the soft countertenor of his real voice told him not to test this kid. So he complied. He should have been scared. After all, it wasn't exactly normal to have two voices: one reserved for pain, while the other held the keys to pleasure and regular conversation. But again, horny fuck meets hot young thing willing to touch him in places that his wife had spent ten years avoiding. Needless to say, fear was the last thing on his mind.

"Yes ma'am," he mumbled begrudgingly, then changed his tune as he felt another sharp squeeze to his genitals, "I mean, sir!"

"Good boy," he purred, loosening his grip to a more pleasing hold as he rolled the man's nuts around his hand gently.

Before Donald could get too excited, though, he was gone again, slipping his firm ass further down the man's stubby legs until his cheeks hit ankles.

"Now, where do you want me, Mr. Senator?" Lidérc pulled out his best Marilyn Monroe impersonation as he laid his throat over the politician's cock. The vibrations from his larynx spiked up in his john's gut. "Here?" He held a piece of ice between his teeth as he trailed it up the senator's thigh, tongue peeking out from the side of the ice to chase away the cold.

A hissed sounded in approval. Or maybe it was frustration, given how his hips bucked and tried to push those red lips closer to his crotch.

"What about here?" the cocktail waiter asked, sucking a patch of skin underneath Senator Donald's stomach into his mouth so that the writhing man could feel both the heat of Lidérc's mouth and the icy chill simultaneously. The skin, among other things, clenched beneath him, causing him to chuckle. Getting warmer.

"Or what. About. Here?" Lidérc licked him from the base of his erection to its tip, paying homage to the vein that ran on its underside before teasing the slit with a wicked tongue that knew ways to make the pros blush and eyes that were dark, hot, and hungry.

The feeling of that wet, bumpy tongue on his skin inspired a round of curses that would have made his "Family Friendly" campaign base's ears bleed.

"Shit, shit, mutherfucking shit!" Senator Donald cried out.

Lidérc, being the wonderful seducer that he was, kept up with the innocent novice act. "Am…am I hurting you, Mr. Senator? I…I've never done this before, and I—" he broke off with an Oscar-worthy sniffle.

The questions bounced around the man's head sweetly, but Senator Donald wasn't having any of it. "Shut up and throat it, you little bit—" He caught himself before the waiter could make due on his threat to rip him apart.

"Fine!" Lidérc, dropped the act and took hold of him more firmly in his small hands, "But you know the deal," he said, looking up at him from beneath carefully lined eyelashes, "tell me when you're getting close. Because I don't swallow, and I'm not a fan of spitting either."

Lidérc knew that he'd get paid more if he did, but something inside him cringed at the thought of having this scumbag's cum on his tongue. Said it felt like thousands of sperm swimming on his tongue, cartoon-style, and the taste wasn't exactly sticky sweet either.

Lidérc rolled his eyes at the childish thought as Senator Donald nodded a shaky yes.

"Answer me, Senator," Lidérc commanded. Then with a gentle purr and another flick of his tongue to that vein, he added, "Use your words."

"Y-yes! Now-ungh!" Lidérc had already sunk down onto him throat deep by this time, slowly sucking his way back down.

"I only asked for confirmation senator. Learn to follow directions." This asshole was cocky. He talked a very good game that no one in the politician's camp would have been allowed to even try for fear of a pink slip and a lifetime at the end of the unemployment line. But at the same time, Lidérc was able to back his talk up with a tongue that wouldn't quit and soft, plush lips that shielded him from his teeth and sucked hard, leaving a bright red circle that burned its way through the base of Donald's skin as it tried to hold his orgasm back in a supernaturally made cock ring. Lidérc didn't feel bad for him though. He was this close to bursting, and they boy needed him to last.

"Didn't I say for you to tell me when?" Lidérc pulled off abruptly, leaving him stretched to the limit, panting and confused.

"I…I'm trying to hold it…I—" His stuttering was killing the young man's high. Lidérc turned the other man over onto his stomach, hand binds and all, not giving a single damn that the gloves were restricting his circulation.

He thought about leaving him like that, tied up, nearly in tears, and hard up for an source of affection that he could never get without a government seat. Some might think it cruel, and Lidérc had honestly never cared about being perceived that way, but even he knew that leaving the senator here, even in such a compromising position—at his own party—would have been better than what he was about to do to him.

_This is wrong_, that voice inside would say.

But then he looked over at him, writhing on the bed, trying to create the friction that he so desperately needed to get off, and the pale boy instantly felt that voice panic. "Stop it!" Lidérc remarked, straddling his back and grabbing the base of him. His nails gripped the man's thinning hair painfully off the pillows. "You don't come unless I make you, understand?" he hissed. There went that voice in Donald's head again, ricocheting off of his skull in a way that ceased his every motion. But this time, it was different, gentler, more melodic, and almost scared even in its fierceness.

Lidérc could feel the shift in his voice as well, but shook it off. "Remember when I said that we'd play 'Speak No Evil' later?" He knew the man couldn't hear him, so he grabbed his head and nodded his head yes. "Well welcome to later." With that, his tongue swiped over the shell of his client's ear, and Donald could hear but he could no longer speak.

Next, he reached for his bag, rummaging until he found what he was looking for and turned it on. Senator Donald's ears perked up fearfully at the sound of vibration. It sounded like a…but…but it couldn't be.

Except it was. "Now Senator," Lidérc's tone took on that of a news reporter, "you say that vaginal probing will deter women from promiscuous behavior, but have you ever been probed, yourself?" His heartbeat picking up speed was both their answers: yes this _was_ a vibrator, and _no_ he had never, nor did he ever, have intentions of being probed.

Lidérc chuckled at the man wriggling to get free, but otherwise ignored him to continue, "Aren't you afraid that your female constituents will be a little put off by the hypocrisy of your platform, a platform, mind you," Lidérc added, while applying a liberal amount of the cold KY brand lubrication jelly onto the vibrator, "that has defined your entire tenure as senator?"

Everything that the cruel young man said was true, and Senator Donald knew it. But he didn't expect his own words came back to screw him—quite literally—in the ass. Yet getting away was proving not only futile, but exhausting. He stopped squirming and lay his head down in both defeat and fatigue. Though neither lasted very long once Lidérc parted his cheeks and circled the tip of the toy around his rim.

A loud whoosh of air escaped his mouth, and not of the bad variety. He had to remind himself that he didn't believe in this sort of thing. Unless of course it were happening to a pregnant woman. Then it was, okay.

Lidérc read him cover to cover. "You don't have to believe in it. In fact, that's part of the fun." Then he stuck the tip in, forgoing any type of prep. After all, the man hated gays as well. Never would he opt for their practices, right?

Yes, well, his ass, didn't agree, because it tightened even as they boy shoved more in. A broom handle made of thorns wouldn't have hurt worse. Of this, he was sure. But then minutes turned into ten, turned into fifteen, turned into twenty, and somewhere between crying tears of agony for her to stop, the senator started crying out for more.

Lidérc angled his wrist and went deeper, searching for that bundle of nerves that he had so affectionately labeled the P-spot, and when he found it, the senator nearly shot off the bed in pleasure, his mouth opening in a silent exaltation. Jackpot!

He was almost there, going from stubbornly clenching his ass cheeks in protest of the foreign intrusion to damn near hate fucking himself on it. Lidérc could feel every time it hit him in just the right spot, and his stomach coiled as tightly as if it were her own prostate that the vibrator were drilling into. It matched the violent tremor of Senator Donald's hands in the binds, making Lidérc want nothing more than to shove the dildo up the man and finish him off once and for all.

"Harder bitch!" he mouthed mutely.

"I thought you didn't believe in this?" Lidérc countered, playfully. Only this was no laughing matter. He could practically hear the orgasm rushing toward the man's cock, the taste of it was as good as his. His crotch was growing harder with the thrill of it all. And even his inner monologue was wracked with the waves of fullness crashing over them. He was like a rubber band, stretched and ready to snap at any minute

And God knew the senator wanted it. He was so hot for it even Lidérc caught his fever. He was making it so easy for the boy to want to slip into the wet warmth of his arousal and chew straight through to its core. He reached around Donald with the hand that wasn't working the vibrator and started milking him for all he was worth.

"Oh Sweet Mother in Heaven!" the man mouthed at the contact.

Lidérc chuckled to take his mind off the jolt of electricity that he felt buzzing in his stomach. "Not quite. But close."

Again, he didn't even question the statement; he was too far gone with the thought of coming undone, and honestly, so was Lidérc.

But great as this was, and as much as he desperately wanted to let him finish, he couldn't do so without that damned angel on his shoulder taking batting practice at his horns. The little bitch that those who didn't know any better would have called a conscious was practically bursting his eardrums with his loud, shrill begging.

He pushed the senator further toward the edge; there it was.

He tried to block it out entirely; it got louder.

He pulled the man back from bliss, and it quieted down, only to start back up again when Lidérc did.

Finally, the voice drove Lidérc to the point of insanity. "Enough!" he screamed, stumbling to free the man on the bed before jumping far away from him.

Senator Donald turned back over to see what the commotion was. Suddenly he had all five of his senses back, but missing the only one he cared about: the sense of satiation.

"What are you doing?" he rasped.

"I'm leaving before I do something you'll regret," Lidérc told him, grabbing his bag and heading for the door limply. "Keep the toy. You can use it to finish yourself off after I leave."

Then he left the room, walking through the party with a fiery rage in his veins, starving to the point feeling nauseous and ignoring the politician's cries for him to get back in there and finish what he started. This really had to stop. This…_hesitance _within was keeping him from doing his job. And he tried telling himself that it wasn't the knowledge of what he'd become if he ever let a man finish at his hands that was making him leave.

It was true, of course. That little part of him that had remained pure even through all the pain and hardship of being thrown into this life wouldn't let himself lose the last shred of humanity that he had left just to embrace being a glorified whore.

But Lidérc entered the kitchen—a safe distance from the now-masturbating senator—conjuring up fresh lies about how the reason that he couldn't get his fill was because he was looking for a challenge, someone who fought back, someone who was as much a feast for the eyes as he was for the tongue.

That's when he saw him: hazel-green eyes with dark, glossy curls cut stylishly low but not in an obnoxious "I spent 700 dollars to look this good" type of way, and an open face that was boyishly innocent despite the shadow of stubble on his face or the naughty glint in those long-lashed bedroom eyes. A spark of heat rocketed deep inside Lidérc making him smirk inwardly. _**So this is what you like, huh?**_ Well, it was just as well. He always did have a hard spot for the innocent ones.

Lidérc excused himself from the open kitchen's large pantry, where all the cocktail waitresses—two of which who were having a conversation about a partygoer whom they both refused to service on account of how "his lips were so chapped that it felt as if the man had gone down on a cactus"—were supposed to stay until needed, adjusted his black, lace masquerade mask over his eyes, and grabbed a tray full of champagne from a waitress, ignoring the "Hey!" that was called out in response to the action.

He walked over to the man and his acquaintance, switching his hips in a way that he knew made every man and woman in the room take notice and trailing the finger that he'd just had on her bottom lip over the rim of the glass…

Blaine Anderson stood bored out of his mind. These parties were all the same. Nothing but expensive booze, stuffy executives in Armani, and desperate, barely legal sluts willing to do something strange for something shiny in exchange.

Or at least that's what his boss, Jesse St. James, was saying as he stood next to him in a corner of the room with a smoking cigar lying lazily in his hands while he surveyed the menagerie as if everything were going according to plan. And the man was loving every minute of it.

He looked more like a kid in a candy store rather than an Advertising firm CEO in a 1,200 dollar suit standing in his penthouse living room in the middle of scene that played out like this: campaign strategists, businessmen, and other investors roamed the room in heat, conspicuously playing grab ass with the scantily clad waitresses while their socialite wives drank _Krug Clos d'Ambonnay _with faces left unaffected by Botox and too many facelifts to count despite the predatory glances they stole at Blaine.

Blaine wasn't a prude, nor was he a virgin by any means, but this wasn't just picking up some guy, doing him in a coat closet, and then zipping up your pants before it was time to shake your top investor's hand. This was something else.

The party dripped sexuality like golden honey dripping from soft skin. With full lips and wet tongues rolling slowly over pieces of conversation, emphasizing certain words so as to show technique rather than substance. And slender-fingered cocktail servers lazily stroking the stems of champagne flutes with the promise of more in their eyes.

The condo walls were a dark espresso brown. The recess lighting shown golden and seductive from the tray ceilings above them, and a jazz band played something dark and sexy that was equally heavy on the bongos as it was the violin. It seemed as though the real purpose of the party were to get these people off rather than get votes for the senator, but no one seemed to question the validity of having what was—in his mind—only seconds away from turning into an orgy for a man who claimed to be so conservative. Yet, all around him, everyone seemed to be having the time of his or her life.

Everyone except him.

As one could probably tell, Blaine wasn't really into these types of gatherings. Not that he'd ever really been to one before now, but what he really wanted to do was go home, kick off his shoes, eat a TV dinner in his small Los Angeles apartment, and go to bed early watching highlights of last night's basketball game on ESPN. He had work early tomorrow with many of these same people, but leaving now, the day after being hired as the new accounting assistant for St. James Advertising didn't add up to a promotion in his book. Call him crazy. Many did. But it was true; he'd done the math. Twice.

He liked math, was good at it in that way that all former musicians learn to be after spending countless nights counting eighth notes in measures marked by seven/eight time. But those days were over, his aspirations as a songwriter and musician, that is, and now someone else was slaving over a screeching violin while he stood awkwardly off to the side of the room near a chocolate fountain with one eye on the senator—who walking over to them with a pained limp in his walk—and the other on his watch.

He added up all the people in the room, and then subtracted that by the number of steps it took to get to the elevator in order to come up with the amount of people who would actually notice it when he chose to leave early. Because, again, the quiet politeness that concealed age old scheming was well and good for TV shows like _Scandal_ and _Revenge_, but in real life, the shit got old. Quickly.

The plump politician limped up to them and smeared a dollop of caviar onto a cracker before edging his way between Jesse and the head of accounting, and the man for which Blaine assisted, Alexander Lebowitz. "Great turnout, St. James," he said, bits of cracker and caviar flying everywhere. "Keep this up and I just might take you to Washington with me in 2016." A cocktail waitress walked past them with a hors d'oeuvre tray and the senator sent her away with a smack on the ass after grabbing nearly all the braised wild truffles from her tray.

On top of being physically sated, he was also drunk, something to which Jesse didn't take kindly. Subtle debauchery was one thing. Blowing Jesse's business because you couldn't keep your perversions to yourself long enough to conJesse your constituents (or future clients as Jesse saw them) was unacceptable.

Jesse cupped his hand around the senator's shoulder, and said smoothly, "Well then I'll see you at the polls." His voice then dipped to a whisper loud enough for only Blaine, Alexander, and the Senator Donald himself to hear, "However, when I suggested for you to prove to the public that you weren't quite the tight ass that you pretend to be, taking a dildo back there wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but I suppose desperate times..." Jesse trailed off with just enough suggestion to get his point across. Don't. Screw. With. His. Business.

"I…I…I…have no idea what you're talking about," he stammered. Yet, the instant change in his countenance brought on by the champagne-carrying cocktail server told both Blaine and Jesse that he had been spot on in his assumption. And that's really what made Blaine start paying attention to what was happening in front of him, because he was genuinely curious to catch a glimpse of the person who had done…well…_that…_to Mr. Gay is An Abomination himself.

The moment Blaine looked up, he knew exactly why the Senator hadn't said no to this woman. He also had a feeling that he was about to find out if the saying: "Curiosity killed the cat" was true just from the way that the air thickened around them with every step that the waiter took nearer.

The boy was a tall brunette that had seemingly stepped straight off the runway and forgotten his shirt somewhere along the way, as his toned chest and nicely built arms lay on full display underneath his black suspenders. He smelled sweet, like vanilla but there was something underneath it, something thick and musky with a masculine headiness that made his eyes drift lower than they should.

His beautiful and angelic pale features complimented the most stunning pair of ultramarine eyes that he had ever seen all set above a wide Cupid's bow mouth that tilted upward in an indifferent smirk. The combination was throwing the senator into a frenzy and even more inappropriate as he made haste to drag Jesse and Alexander away from the table. But something about her made Blaine uncomfortable.

It was his eyes, those ever-changing eyes that seemed every bit as hungry and carnally-driven as the rest of the room but not as straight-forward.

More cunning.

More calculating.

He thought that perhaps they reminded him of his late grandmother's evil cat, Tabitha the Tabby, what with the thick ring of smoky black liner that was causing them to appear slanted and the long, sharp-looking nails. But that wasn't entirely it. The more he looked, the more he saw it, that those eyes—the ones that turned hungrily onto him but saw nothing but sex—glittered with something purer, sadder, and more tormented just beneath the surface.

That something came alive and begged to be freed for just a second while they stared each other down before it disappeared, and the boy's bright red lips curved upward in a way that knocked the wind out of him.

He was a good two inches shorter than this kid's five feet ten inch frame and Blaine wondered if the waiter knew that he was mentally calculating how soon it would be before he had him breathless, gasping desperately for air just like Senator Donald, if the boy could practically hear the numbers crunching in that pretty little curly head of his. He got the feeling that it was the taller man's goal to have him panting and writhing beneath him. But in what way—pain or pleasure—he did not know.

"Wha…um…I'm Blaine. What's yours? I mean…what's your name?" Blaine managed after a moment of staring dumbly. He knew that he sounded like a five year old, but again, he had never been to this type of party and he really didn't know the protocol for chatting up hired help. Especially not the kind that looked like this man did.

The waiter licked his lips, wishing that they were Blaine's instead, before he leaned down to press his mouth to the new advertising assistant's ear. _**"We're not supposed to talk."**_ Lidérc communicated, because it was true. They were merely part of scenery, there to create the illusion of mystery, lust, and intrigue.

Blaine peered up into his eyes as the boy stepped back slightly. And now he was more freaked out than ever, because he was certain that, even though he'd heard him say that the wait staff wasn't supposed to talk and had felt those cherry lips move against his ear, he had never uttered a single word. Blaine shivered a bit under the blue-green gaze, causing that glimmer of sadness to resurface in the other man's eyes for a second.

Realizing that he would not be taking a drink, Lidérc backed up and excused himself with a small nod of his head to the direction of the patio off the kitchen, smile completely gone from his face. In fact, the boy looked more saddened than salacious, which should have been a nice change of pace if it weren't for the fact that it now made Blaine feel like an ass for reasons unknown. He hadn't even done anything. Since when did pulling away from a creepy guy at a party make put him in the wrong? Answer: it didn't.

Still, there he was running out onto the patio after this man, wondering how he'd offended him.

_Was it the fact that I didn't take a drink?_ He pondered as he looked around him for any signs of the boy with the deep red lips and sad grayish-blue eyes. _Because I could sure as hell use a drink now_.

Silently, and as if on cue, the sexy waiter showed up beside him, offering his tray of champagne. Blaine nodded in affirmation. He could use a drink. Or two. Or ten. Or...who the hell was even counting anymore?

He watched a those pale, slender fingers ran against the rim of the cocktail glass, and he moved in to take it. He'd been practically inviting him to take that very drink, only now that he reached for it Lidérc seemed reluctant and nervous.

_"No, not that one_," he said, placing another glassful of champagne into Blaine's hands. Again, the request wasn't something that he heard with his ears. It was more like an innate knowledge that he'd gotten. Like when one associates the color blue to the sky or the phrase "Power Hungry Dick meets Evil Bitch" to Jesse and Santana, respectfully.

They both stood there for a beat, silent and sizing each other up, before Blaine spoke up again. "So you know you never told me your name back in there?"

The waiter watched him gulp down the alcohol and replace it on the tray with another one, a slow smirk tilting the corner of his crooked smile upward.

"Oh right. Shit! Forgot you weren't supposed to speak." He tried again, "Well can you at least let me take that tray from you for a while? It looks heavy." A part of him wondered why he couldn't just let this go. The young man before him was obviously insane. He seemed to have multiple personalities, one of which was making an appearance now in the form of a shy little child who looked awkward and out of place in the risqué outfit that he was wearing.

Then there was the one that smelled so damned good and reveled in the fact that his scent was drawing him in. Like the debauched to a red light.

And of course he couldn't forget the boy who'd transformed the 240 pound, Republican senator into a sore-assed mess with only a few flicks of his wrist. Wanting to know who he really was was justifiable. But sticking around long enough for the boy to tell him? Well, that's what made him question his sanity.

In the end, he need not have worried. Because Lidérc had decided that that was as good a time as any to leave the conversation where it stood: hanging in the air above them, ready to be carried far away. Blaine had his drink. He'd done his job, made sure that the curly-haired cutie hadn't taken the drink that he'd originally laid out for him. And now he could leave.

But for some reason, the pull to be near the hazel-eyed man, pressed against him just once was too strong to resist, and Lidérc leaned down to his ear once more time: "_Don't come looking for me again. You'll regret it if you do." _The words were menacing but the voice in which Blaine had heard it was as sweet and gentle as the lips that the waiter pressed into his cheek. It was barely a kiss, not even that. It was more like he was resting his lips there until he found the strength not to move in for a taste. But it was enough to make Blaine's breathing pick up and his head turn to give Lidérc what he wanted.

The air thickened around them as Blaine watched the waiter back away before their lips met, sexy smile tugging at him mouth, violin gaining just a bit more pizzicato with every step swish of his hips. He was moving to the seductive tango music that bled into the night air the minute he slipped away toward the condo, and Blaine swore that he could almost feel this boy everywhere, slipping into his subconscious. Could taste him on his tongue. Could hear him calling to him even though his lips never moved. Calling to claim him.

And the dark outline of a firebird tattooed across his upper back that trailed off into a thin line of cursive script down the length of his spine was the last thing he saw of Lidérc as he took a drink from the glass that the waiter thought he'd saved the shorter man from.


End file.
